In this short story, Mrinmoyee Goswami takes us into the dangerous areas in and around Guwahati where what happens remains a secret with multiple versions doing the rounds.
Again, I find myself waiting impatiently to catch my flight to Guwahati. The long-haul flight had been tiring enough, and by the time the plane had landed in Delhi, I was exhausted, only to discover that my connecting flight had been delayed. But it was a cold day in January when such delays are expected; a dense fog hung over the city, disrupting flight operations.
It was very early still, and the hour just stretched by, the airport crowded with passengers awaiting take-offs and surrounded by strange faces no one knows when familiarity strikes at random. And an intimacy that started with exchanging glances or a smile soon led to a spontaneous conversation.